


Phobia

by Dusty_Forgotten



Category: Fallout (Video Games), Fallout 3
Genre: Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-07-04
Updated: 2014-07-04
Packaged: 2018-02-07 10:02:01
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,168
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1894872
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Dusty_Forgotten/pseuds/Dusty_Forgotten
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Archer Wright, pure psychopath and local boogeyman, rides out a panic attack, and punches Jericho in the gut.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Phobia

**Author's Note:**

> Now with 2% less suck!
> 
> Deleted from Kinkmeme for aforementioned Suck.

It was born out of association. Archer Wright favours plasma, and the way he has his plasmic weapons calibrated, sometimes things get a little... explosive. Explosions and small spaces do not mix. This evolved into a dislike for close-quarters combat, where he’s limited to the microfusion hyperbreeder he keeps around (mostly for radscorpions, whose existence is less of a nuisance to him than dipping under 500 energy cells). So, he avoids close quarters combat- and being rationally cautious enough to survive in a post-apocalyptic hell, he equates that to avoiding close quarters in general.

It’s most efficient that way, besides. He has a better sense of perception and direction when he’s in an open Wasteland, and not slogging through all sorts of undesirable things in more-often-than-not collapsed subway tunnels. Rooms without windows make him anxious (limited exits), he never takes elevators (they’re always in a horrid state of rickety disrepair), and he refuses to enter spaces with too many people (they can easily gang up against him, of course). It’s a perfectly rational, adapted survival instinct.

Jericho doesn’t think so.

“Here, take the caps and pick up some Rad-X from the clinic.” Archer says, standing in the door to the Rivet City stairwell.

Jericho looks at the caps uncomprehendingly, and glares at his travelling partner. “The fuck, man? Just get in there and do it yourself.”

Archer rolls his eyes. “I have more important things to do. Take care of this, and we can leave quicker. Burning daylight, Jericho.”

“Fine! Fuckin’ fine...” he mutters, heading inside. Archer pretends to be busy with his Pip-Boy until he comes back.

~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~

They’re crawling through metro tunnels later that week when Archer throws his plasma rifle over his shoulder and abandons sniping, preferring instead to blast a few heads off with a plasma pistol, pat down the bodies, and keep moving. Another five minutes later, he switches for the Shishkebab and walks into bullets, moving on before they’re even dead. That leaves Jericho to pick through anything useful they might be carrying, but Archer’s already down the broken escalator and into the next tunnel. “Hey, slow down!” he calls. He doesn’t listen.

Jericho trots to catch up, and stops about five feet back. “W-wait a minute. I just... need to catch my breath.”

He moves faster, if anything. “We can rest when we get outside; right now we have to keep moving.”

He sounds rushed. “What’s so important? We’re just headed to the fort that zombie told you about, right?”

“We have to get there before he does.”

“Why? You’ve got the keys, and the firepower. He tries to give you hell, I’ll pop _his_ head off.”

“I’d rather not run into Crowley at all.” he says, throwing open the door to a maintenance tunnel. He’s practically jogging now. “Let’s just get the fuck out of here, okay?”

“Yeah, whatever. If I have a heart attack, you’re carrying this shit.”

He ignores the older man, and breaks into a sprint up an escalator. Jericho huffs as he climbs the steps slowly. He’s getting old, and still out of shape. At least he’s not the only one out of breath.

“What, gettin’ tired already?” he snickers, catching up to where Archer’s practically ripping open the rusted chain gate, trying to squeeze through a gap not wide enough. He’s hyperventilating. Jericho pulls the gate a bit further, and Archer stumbles through, diving onto the steps outside. He’s down on his hands and knees, looks like he’s going to throw up. “What the fuck’s wrong with you, kid?”

“Nothing.” he insists quickly, catching his breath and stumbling to his feet. “I guess the Cram was expired.”

“No way. We both read the expiration date, and I’m not sick.”

“I have no alcohol tolerance, okay? God _dammit_ , I need a cigarette!”

Archer uses vodka as mouthwash; swigs, swishes, and spits. He doesn’t drink. “I’ve still got a couple. Come on, let’s get to the action!”

_~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~_

“So you can fix it?”

“Absolutely.”

“But you’re not going to?”

“Absolutely not.”

“Because you don’t trust the parts you just inspected and said work fine?”

“That doesn’t guarantee it will continue working.”

Jericho grabs a bottle from the floor and throws it against the wall. “What the fuck’s your problem!?”

“I’d rather exert the extra energy to climb the stairs than risk falling to my death because the elevator cable finally gives way.” Archer explains with a shake of his head. It makes him seem less sure of himself.

“I’m not taking six flights of stairs! I’m sixty-fuckin’-five-years-old! I’ll have a coronary!”

“Then you stay here, and I’ll take the steps, alright?” he hisses.

“Fine by me! Just don’t be gone too long. I don’t wanna be standing here all day with my thumb up my ass!”

Archer flicks him off as he disappears down the corridor to the staircase. Jericho pats his pockets. “Motherfucker has the cigarettes!”

~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~

Jericho’s waiting for Archer when he comes out of the bathrooms. He pauses when he sees the Box is open, assuming the inhabitant must finally be dead, but a look of confusion and curiosity crosses his face when he sees a bottle of Nuka-Cola Quantum sitting in the bottom. “Eulogy’s the only one who drinks Quantum. Why is...?” he begins, reaching for it, when Jericho kicks him in, and shuts the door.

A fist slams to the metal door, and when Archer replies, it’s with a kind of malice only brought on by fear.“Very funny, asshole, now open the goddamn door.”

“Not yet, kid.” he says, twirling the key around his finger as he leans against the Box. “See, I was talking to Cutter about what the fuck’s wrong with you, and she says it’s called a, uh... phobica?”

“ _Phobia_ , alright Jericho? It’s called a fucking phobia, and I don’t have one. I don’t like small spaces because I can’t use plasma. Perfectly rational!”

His voice has gone up several octaves already. “Nothing you need to shoot in there.”

He can hear Archer breathing fast and heavy, trying to stretch his arms and bangs the walls, stretches them above his head, touches the ceiling. “Alright, alright, al-fucking-right! Claustrophobia: fear of small spaces; had it for as long as I can remember. I’m a pussy, now let me out!”

“Oh, no.” Jericho disagrees. “She says the quickest way to get over it is to face it. You’re gonna stay right here until you quit panicking, and we can get on with our fucking lives.”

“You’re fucking fired!”

“Alright. I’m taking the key with me. Think I might take up work as a slaver. These are my kind of people.”

“Jericho, don’t you fucking leave me!”

“I’m not. I’m gonna have a couple beers and be back when the crying’s over. Oh, and try not to be too loud, you’ve got a reputation around here as some kind of hardass. See ya, kid.”

Archer Wright, pure psychopath and local boogeyman, rides out his panic attack, and upon release, punches Jericho in the gut.

 


End file.
